


Between the Summer and the Fall

by celli



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Accounting, Alternate Universe, Chromatic Character, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-11
Updated: 2011-03-11
Packaged: 2017-10-16 21:17:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/169442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celli/pseuds/celli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I wouldn’t have met you, though,” Cook said to the apartment wall.</p><p>David snorted a little. “Yeah, who wouldn’t rather have sex with me than be a rock star?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Summer and the Fall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [astolat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astolat/gifts).



> First and most fervent thanks go to thestarsexist, who alternately encouraged, bullied, and reassured me for the nearly three years(!) it took for me to write this, and to trinaest, who co-betaed and held my hand through the internet. Thanks also to krisdia, out_there, dodificus, cinco, ciudad, and like half the planet for their cheerleading. Ciudad also did the awesome, awesome cover, which has been my desktop background ever since to encourage me to write something befitting it. Thanks also to svmadelyn and slodwick, for showing me AI and the Davids to begin with. Title from the Cook song "A Daily AntheM."
> 
> For astolat, who inspired me to start it, and rajkumari905, without whom I would never have finished it.

  


"Mr. Clewett to reception, please. Mr. Clewett."

David concentrated on sitting up, chin high, back straight, feet flat on the floor. The ID badge in his hand rattled back and forth until he stuffed it into his messenger bag.

"Davey Archuleta! Good to see you again, Davey."

David closed his eyes and huffed one annoyed breath out his nose, then stood and turned.

"Mr. Clewett, it's nice to see you again."

"Ronny, I told you, call me Ronny." Ronny ignored David's outstretched hand to pat him on the back and gestured towards the inner door. "You ready for a great summer, Davey?"

"Can't wait," David said.

***

He'd seen the office when he came by to interview, but only briefly. The accounting department took up most of the third floor of the building, with rows of cubes and two big offices at the back. Glass walls, David noticed, and hoped he was at the front of the floor.

About a million people were staring at him. Okay, twenty. David put his chin back up.

Ronny dragged him around the room. At the first "Davey" introduction, David tried a tentative, "People usually just call me David," but Tammy (or something) just patted his arm and said, "No, honey, he's over there."

"What?" David said, but Ronny was already standing in front of the next desk (Jack? Jim? John?) and Tammy's phone was ringing.

They made it toward the back of the room, and David was starting to wonder if the internship back home in his cousin's company wouldn't have been a better idea, when Ronny stopped at an empty desk. "Where'd he run off to? Theresa, have you seen…"

David was staring idly at the desk. There was nothing on the cube walls except lists of codes and things that were probably work-related. But there was a pencil holder right next to the monitor with a ton of what looked like concert tickets jammed into it, and as he leaned over for a better look, the monitor switched over to the screen saver, and he was nose to nose with a giant picture of a customized Fender guitar.

"David!"

David jumped up, turning bright red, but Ronny was looking somewhere else, at a guy in a black suit walking towards them. As he got closer, David noticed that his shirt was untucked and his tie was off-center.

"Are you the new intern? Hey." He stuck out a hand. "David Cook."

"Oh. I mean, hi."

***

David's home for the summer was a cubicle at the very very back of the room (naturally), directly in front of Marsha, who was an assistant director or an assistant controller or something important, and right across a narrow aisle from David Cook.

…who rolled his chair across the aisle the second Marsha left her office and stuck his head inside. "What do they have you doing?"

"Stuffing envelopes." David waved a check and an envelope in the air. There were about four hundred more in little piles all over his desk.

"Ah, the life of an intern. If you're really good, maybe they'll let you staple things."

"Oh, yay," David said. The other David grinned back.

"So, Davey--oh, whoa, what was that face?"

"Isn't there anything else that you all could call me that's not David?"

The other David thought about it for a minute, drumming his fingers on the cube wall next to him. This close, David noticed that his hair was a little longer than average in back, ruthlessly flat, and a couple of shades darker than his beard.

"What's your last name again?"

"Uh." David blinked a couple of times. "Oh, Archuleta."

"Okay. Does Archie suck?"

"Kind of," David said before he thought. "I mean--"

The other David held up a hand. "Let me rephrase the question: does it suck less than Davey?"

"Oh. Yes?"

"Okay! Archie it is then."

He looked so smug about it David couldn't help himself. "Sure thing, Cookie."

It took Marsha coming over and glaring at them before they could stop laughing. And then David could still hear stray giggles floating across the aisle for the whole rest of the afternoon.

***

David spent a couple of lunch breaks scoping out the area before throwing his gym bag in the backseat Thursday morning. He changed in a bathroom stall and stopped back in the garage to drop his bag off.

There was only one other car left on his level of the garage, even though he hadn't taken that long to change; David brushed past a bumper sticker that said Carp In Denim on his way to the stairs.

When he'd taken the internship in Burbank, he'd expected tall buildings and smog; he hadn't really spent any time in the LA area before. But the only haze was off in the distance, and there were hills in at least two directions.

His muscles took a little longer to warm up than usual; in all the confusion of finding a place for the summer, and packing, and reassuring his mom for the hundred millionth time that he would be fine on his own, Mom, I'm twenty-three and I went to _another country_ for two years, remember, there hadn't been a lot of time to just stretch out and run until his brain shut off and it was just traffic rushing by and sweat dripping down his ears and his feet leaving the pavement.

David was almost resentful when the garage came back into view; by his watch he'd been gone about an hour and a half, and he could have done twice that long. But he rattled up the stairs and headed for his car. The other car was still next to him, even though there was a sign that said no overnight parking.

He rummaged around in his gym bag and finally dug out his towel. He stood back up, scrubbing at his hair, and jumped as the hatchback of the next-door car opened.

David Cook crawled out of it, shoving a windbreaker off his shoulders.

"Um, hi?" David said.

Cook screamed a little and jumped back. David took a step back too.

"Dude, Archie, what are you doing here?"

"Going home. I mean, I was running."

"On purpose?"

"I like it. It makes me stop thinking." David immediately felt the whole back of his neck flush. What a stupid thing to say!

But Cook nodded and said, "I get that, man."

David realized he'd been "drying" his hair the whole time and almost dropped the towel. "So, uh, what are you doing here?"

"Napping."

He waited, but apparently that was all Cook was going to say. "Okay. I better go."

"Me too, actually, I'm late. See you tomorrow, Archie." Cook slammed his trunk down one second, swung into the driver's seat the next, and was out of the lot before David could even remember to say anything back.

Well, that was...weird.

***

"Davey, did you find the check listings from last month?" Marsha asked.

"No problem," David said, although the file room was actually a dark and scary place where old computers lurked in the dark to attack you with their cords. "I gave them to Cook already."

"David?"

"I got 'em!" Cook called, waving a manila folder over his head.

"Did you do anything with them yet?"

"Well…" Cook gave her a big-eyed look that made him seem about five, even with the beard and suit.

Marsha sighed and shook her head. "By the end of the day, boys."

David waited until Marsha was out of earshot until he said, "Yeah, _boy,_ by the end of the day, or you're in big trouble when Mom comes home!"

Cook chucked a Post-It note block at him. "Bite me."

David tried so hard not to laugh he started a coughing fit and Cook had to bring him a bottle of water and Kleenex.

***

David took the garage stairs two at a time and loped across to the two cars parked at the end. He banged his fist on the hatchback, next to the newest bumper sticker: _Alcohol and calculus don't mix. Never drink and derive._ "Cook! Cook!" He cupped his hands and peered inside. "Coo-kie!"

The lid popped and David stumbled back. Cook peered up at him. "You're early!"

"Ten whole minutes. Come on, get up."

Instead, Cook curled up in a ball about an inch from the edge and closed his eyes again. "Whaaaaat?"

"I wanna know where you go every night."

That got his eyes open. He sat up, hunched forward to avoid the lid. "Look, Archie…"

David rubbed his hands on his track pants. "I know you don't tell people at work about personal stuff, but--I mean, and I just got here a couple weeks ago--um." Bad idea. Bad idea. "You know, never mind, don't even worry about it. I'm just gonna go, finish up, you know, run some more." He edged back against his car.

Cook dropped his face into his hands and mumbled something. David turned back towards the stairs.

"Wait a minute."

He turned back around. "Uh, yeah?"

"Don't go running after work tomorrow, okay? Just meet me back here."

"Okay. Are you sure?" Cook glared at him, then rolled his eyes. "Okay. I'll be here."

***

Cook was kind of quiet the next day. Archie tried not to look over at him, or worry about if he was changing his mind, or ask him stupid questions. At one point he was trying not to do anything so hard he forgot to breathe, and the edges of his eyesight got all gray and fuzzy.

It didn't even occur to him to worry about exactly what was going to happen after work, until it was after work, and they were walking to the garage together. Cook still wasn't talking, and David suddenly thought, what if what he does is something illegal? Or, or weird? Not that David knew weird from his right foot, he thought glumly. He was probably going to freak out, and it would turn out to be something that 99.9% of the world's population thought was awesome, and Cook would regret taking him, and--

It took Cook's hand on his chest to keep him from running into his own car.

"You okay, man?"

David tried to look like he wasn't freaking out. "Sure, yeah. Just, uh, wondering where we're going."

Cook half-laughed. "You'll see." He climbed in his car and reached over to unlock the passenger door. "Get in."

That's not ominous at all, David thought, squeezing his way between his car and Cook's to climb in.

Wherever they went, they were at least three freeways from work--David thought they might be heading east, but he was probably wrong. He leaned his head against the back of the seat and watched the cars and the lights and the side of the road. Cook had the radio on to something with a lot of drums and guitars, and was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel and humming along. He had a nice voice, David thought, and made himself think about the exit signs instead.

It started getting a little creepy when they turned off on a road with almost no streetlights, just trees everywhere, and David started wondering if they were really still in L.A., or if--but where would they be if not--and then they were on a bright road again, with neon and cars everywhere.

"No, seriously, where are we going?" he asked, speaking for the first time since he'd gotten into the car, and next to him Cook let out a funny huffing laugh.

"Wait for it, Archie."

They stopped about ten minutes later, about half a block off the main road (David thought it might be Sunset, but just because it looked like he thought Sunset should look), in front of a two-story white building with red windows and a moon-shaped parking lot. The sign on the roof said "The Breakaway."

Cook squeezed into a spot that didn't seem full-sized and popped the hatchback. David worked his way out of his seat and walked around to the back of the car, where Cook was digging through piles of stuff in the back.

Cook wiggled two fingers in a come-here-you gesture. "Take your shirt off, Archie."

"Take my…what where?"

"Take--oh, come here." Cook stopped in the middle of taking his tie off and yanked David closer by one shirtsleeve.

David stood, every muscle frozen, as Cook unbuttoned his shirt.

They were half-hidden by the car, and over Cook's shoulder David could see people walking to and from their cars without noticing them. There was warm breath on his shoulder, and Cook was fumbling with the last button above his pants, swearing under his breath as his fingers slipped and brushed against the bottom of David's stomach, and--

"I got it," he said desperately, shoving Cook's hands back and yanking his shirt out of his pants. "It's good, I got it."

"Right." Cook looked a little bit--but then he turned back to the car and started yanking on his own tie again. As David tried to remember how to breathe, Cook untucked his shirt and then pulled the whole thing over his head. He chucked it into the back of the car. David closed his eyes when Cook started tugging his undershirt up.

When he made himself open them again, Cook was frowning down into the back of the car. David could just barely make out a line of freckles along Cook's right shoulder.

Cook pulled a black T-shirt out from somewhere and pulled it on. Then he frowned down at it, pulled it off again, and handed it to David. "Here."

Oh. _Oh._ "Okay," David said in a small voice, and hurried out of his shirt and into Cook's. He ducked his head; the shirt smelled just a little bit like sweat and an unfamiliar aftershave. It had a logo he didn't really recognize on it, but he was sure it was a band.

When he looked up, Cook was wearing a dark red shirt with a different logo on it, and jeans, somehow. They stared at each other for a minute. David tried really really really hard not to think about the fact that Cook had just changed his pants in front of him.

"You ready?" Cook asked.

"I have no idea," David said honestly.

Cook looked at him some more and then smacked himself on the forehead. "Right! Naps, I don't do well without naps." He reached back into his car and pulled out a guitar case. "Ready or not, let's go."

David already felt kind of numb and strange around the edges. When they walked into the Breakaway, it was like immediate overload--people and music and lights and voices everywhere. He stumbled for a second, and caught himself before he landed on top of Cook's guitar.

"Follow me!" Cook used his guitar case to part the crowd enough for the two of them. He guided them to the seats at the far edge of the bar. "Be right back."

"What?" But Cook had already disappeared through a side door.

David quashed the urge to run out of the bar. And possibly all the way back to Burbank. Except he was still wearing his work shoes, so he wouldn’t get two blocks. He tucked his feet around the legs of his stool and looked around.

The room was sort of centered around a giant stage that curved out. All the lights on it were dark right now, but he could see some equipment set up and cords going every which way. There was an empty space in front of the stage ( _ohnodancing,_ his inner high school freshman squeaked), with couches against the walls, and then tables and chairs the rest of the way back to the bar.

He thought the place looked about half full, although it was still way more people than he was usually around, except when he used to--

"You get a drink yet?"

David whipped around, eyes big. Cook! Right. "No?"

Cook waved down the bartender. "Hank! Hey, this is my friend Archie."

Hank stared at David. "And is Archie of age?"

"I'm twenty-three!" David said, maybe a little snappier than he'd meant to, and both Cook and Hank started laughing. "What?"

"Don't worry about it," Cook said. "What do you want? It's on me."

"Oh. Um. Do you have root beer?"

Now both Cook and Hank were staring at him. Great.

"Root beer?" Hank asked. "You DDing?"

"I'm Mormon." Well, he was still, technically, and he didn't feel like explaining the details to anyone.

Hank opened his mouth, and David braced for the usual, but Cook slapped a twenty on the counter and said, "Root beers all around, buddy, and keep 'em coming."

David kicked the side of his foot against the stool and tried not to look directly at anyone. "You don't have to do that, Cook," he said as soon as Hank moved down the bar. "It's really not a big deal, I don't mind--"

Something brushed against his leg. He looked down. Cook had stretched his feet out and wrapped David's ankle between his, holding his foot steady. "Don't worry about it. Really."

Without even thinking about it, David moved _his_ other leg over, until they were all kind of tangled up under the bar. "Okay," he said, so low he could hardly hear himself.

Sitting there, watching Cook make casual conversation with him, with Hank, and with any other random person in earshot, all while their legs were still twisted together between their stools, was sort of like having an out of body experience. David could tell that his heart was beating really fast and his face was all flushed, but all he could really feel was the point of Cook's boot poking into his right leg and the sweat around his ankles. He stared down at the bar a lot, but every time he peeked over at Cook, Cook was sneaking looks at him, smiling kind of funny when their eyes met.

And then Cook unwound from him and went up on stage, and the actual torture part of the evening began. As soon as the band started hooking up their equipment, David's throat closed up, and he kept clearing it and rubbing at his neck until Hank shoved another root beer in his hands without him asking for it.

He never remembered later what songs they played, what kind of music it was, or even who else was in the band. He kept his hands clenched around his root beer, his legs tight against the sides of the stool, and his eyes on Cook. Every couple of songs he would have to blink hard and clear his throat again.

They finally, finally stopped playing, and David peeled his fingers off the root beer bottle. By the time Cook got back out to meet him, he felt like he looked pretty relaxed, although Hank wouldn't stop smirking every time he looked at him. Jerk.

"Hey, Archie!" Cook said, appearing out of the side door. He had a towel over one shoulder and his guitar case strap over the other.

"Hey," Archie said, still aiming for casual. "That was, that was cool."

Cook beamed at him, but the guy next to him--also sweaty, wearing a stupid looking cowboy hat--laughed meanly. "Yeah, cool, Cook. Your junior high fans appreciate you."

"Fuck off," Cook said cheerfully. "You ready to go, Arch?"

"Sure." David set his bottle down on the bar a little harder than he meant to. "Gotta make curfew, right?"

Cook was still laughing like crazy when they got back to the car.

***

That night, David dreamed he was onstage at the Breakaway, wearing that other guy's cowboy hat, and he could hear his own voice, from when he was a kid, singing a church hymn. But when dream him opened his mouth to sing along, it all came out crazy and awful. He tried to look over at Cook next to him, but he couldn't move his head, so he had to stand there, still singing all wrong, and watch everyone in the audience cover their ears and turn away. He woke up at four in the morning, rubbed his eyes hard, and then almost fell over himself grabbing for his shoes and the door handle at the same time.

He ran until his throat was burning instead of closed up, until the sweat worked its way all down his back to the waist of his pajama pants, and then turned around and ran home even faster.

***

David had a long talk with himself on the drive into work the next morning. It was no big deal. It was just--music wasn't his thing (anymore). It was nice of Cook to take him along this one time, but that didn't mean he had to go again or anything. He would say thank you, and he would say you were good, and if Cook invited him again he would say no. And if that meant they couldn't be, be friends anymore, then they wouldn't.

He practiced a little speech, and had it down perfect until he pulled into the garage and saw Cook leaning on his car, hands in his suit pockets, looking hopefully in David's direction.

David pulled the car into what might or might not have been a parking spot, and sat there, blankly, hands glued to the wheel, as Cook loped over to him and pulled open the door. "Hey, Archie! So, last night, what did you think?"

"Oh, it was--" David tried desperately to remember his speech, but Cook was looking right at him and frowning, and put a hand out to cup the side of David's face.

"Dude, you look like death warmed over. I didn't think I got you back that late."

"No, it's fine, I'm fine."

"You are _not,"_ Cook said, almost glaring down at him, and then David's hands were on Cook's head pulling him down, and then he was kissing him.

Cook didn't even hesitate; he rested one hand on the back of the seat and leaned in. He opened his mouth over David's, and it was like running. No way to think or worry or anything like that, just Cook's tongue on his bottom lip, and his beard tickling David's chin. He tightened his hands in Cook's hair--and then Cook overbalanced somehow, and fell forward into David's lap.

"What--" David said. There was a _crunch_ and a jolt. David belatedly put his foot back on the brake. "Oh."

Cook wiggled over to look out the back window, not noticing that he was making David's eyes pop wide open in the process. "Huh," he said.

"Please tell me that's not your car."

"It's not my car. You hit the pillar thing."

"The pillar thing halfway down?"

"Yup." Cook was, for some crazy reason, grinning. "Oops?"

"Oops? Cook, I could have killed you! Or your car! Or something!"

"Archie."

"Oh my gosh, my dad is going to kill _me."_

 _"Archie."_ Cook was tugging on David's tie. He hadn't moved at all, which meant David was still pretty much wearing him like a blanket, and he was still smiling.

Okay, that didn't help the panic at all. David closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Yes?" he said without opening them.

"Put the car in park."

David did.

"Take your foot off the brake."

"Okay."

There was a tug on his tie again, and David opened his eyes. Cook kept pulling until their faces were right up next to each other.

"Well, we're here anyway," David said, like that meant something, and kissed Cook again.

***

David was a few minutes later than Cook leaving work that day. He walked out to the parking lot kind of nervously; for one thing, he had a dent in his bumper, and for another, he and Cook hadn't talked about the music thing at all that day. Would Cook expect him--or maybe he wouldn't want--and what if instead it was all about the kissing, and--

David stopped halfway up the stairwell and banged his head hard on the heel of his hand. "Oh, please stop thinking," he said out loud.

But when he got up to his car, everything was quiet, and he was pretty sure that was Cook asleep in his backseat like usual. David stood between the two cars and freaked out for probably about ten minutes before he turned away and grabbed for his running shoes.

When he came back--more tired than he thought he should be--Cook's car was gone, but there was a bumper sticker covering up most of the dent on his car. It said "Adjure obfuscation."

"Still not thinking," David said.

***

Of course he was even crazier the next morning. His stomach _hurt_ when he pulled into the garage. It hurt more when Cook's car was there but Cook wasn't.

Cook was, however, sitting at David's desk when he got to the office. "Um, hi?" David said.

"I thought for the sake of humanity and your car insurance I shouldn't wait for you in the garage."

Oh. Yeah. "I probably would have driven out a window next," David said glumly.

Cook started laughing--of course.

"Okay, anyway," he said when he was done, "I gotta ask you something."

David's stomach knotted right back up. "What?"

"C'mere." Cook grabbed the edge of David's jacket sleeve and tugged him around until he was crammed into the cubicle, practically on top of Cook. David tried not to look around at anyone in the office.

"So," Cook said, resting his hands on the outside of David's legs and looking up at him.

David waited a minute, but Cook didn't say anything else _or_ move his hands. "…So?"

"So I'm at the Breakaway tonight again--opening for my friend Chris's band. The guy in the cowboy hat?"

"Mm-hm?" David tried to squirm back a little farther, but Cook tightened his grip.

"But Saturday I don't have a gig or rehearsal or anything. Maybe we could hang out?"

Hang out? Like, what, play Nintendo or something? "Where?" David asked (squeaked).

"I don't care." Cook leaned in, tilting in a way that put him way way way too close to David's waistband. "Someplace that doesn't have brakes."

 _Oh._

David said something that must have been yes, and okay, and goodbye, because all of a sudden Cook was smiling at him and leaving. David sat down hard.

***

Cook was picking him up at two. David slept as late as he could, got up, made breakfast, went for a run, took a shower, and sat down on the couch.

It was 11:32.

"Aagh," David said, collapsing back onto the couch and pulling a cushion over his head.

Of course, then he fell asleep by accident, and when he woke up it was 1:30 and it was all rushing around and wetting down his hair on the side he'd slept on and digging frantically through his closet trying to find something that wasn't stupid or boring. Which was pretty much everything he owned.

He buttoned up a black dress shirt over a white undershirt, then stopped halfway through tucking it in to decide it was a stupid, stupid outfit. He had just finished unbuttoning it when the doorbell rang.

"I'm coming!" David looked around frantically, but no cool shirts had suddenly appeared, so he hurried to the door.

"Hey," he said breathlessly, pulling the door open and kind of squishing himself behind it.

Cook was wearing the boots he'd worn at the Breakaway, jeans unraveling at the edges, a black shirt with a gold pattern splashed across it, and sunglasses. His hair was all messed up, but in the awesome way, not the slept on it wrong way. He pulled the sunglasses off. "Nice place."

David looked around. It was a studio apartment smaller than his living room at home, with a twin bed on one end and a battered brown couch on the other, and his parents' guest room TV perched on a dining room chair between them. "Thanks," he managed.

"Dude, don't knock the value of personal space. I have three roommates, and if I ever get a room to myself again, it'll be because they all died in a freak Wii Bowling accident."

The thought made David giggle a little, and Cook grinned down at him.

"So, you ready to get going?"

David snuck a look down at his stupid shirt and sighed. "Yeah, sure." He stepped out from behind the door.

Cook's eyes went up and down his body really quick, and stayed stuck somewhere around David's stomach. David put his hand down there and realized his undershirt was pulled up. He tugged it down.

And then his hand wouldn't move, because it was trapped between him and Cook, and the rest of him was trapped between the wall and Cook, and basically Cook was right there, and David forgot all about his hand and opened his mouth so Cook could kiss him better.

It was like, what did you pay attention to first? Cook was an amazing kisser, and he tasted like mints which maybe meant that he'd been _thinking_ about kissing David, which was even more amazing than the actual kissing. And there was this scratching at his side that turned out to be Cook tugging up his undershirt with his fingernails. He slid a hand underneath, and all of a sudden David had to put his head back and make himself breathe, and then Cook started kissing his way down David's neck and sucked right at the base of his throat, just a little, and breathing wasn't happening anyway, no matter how hard he tried.

It took him a couple of seconds to realize Cook had pushed away from him and was standing there, his hands on his hips, looking like he couldn't breathe that much either. David finished pulling his shirt down and waited.

"Um," Cook said, still breathing hard, "we should go."

"Okay," David said.

They didn't move.

"Okay?" David said again, all high and tentative.

Cook smacked himself in the forehead like he had at the club. "Yes. Let's go. Let's go now."

David followed him out the door, one hand poking at the tender skin on his throat.

***

"Hang on," David said, staring down at his ticket. "I saw this movie already."

"I know, me too. That's why it's perfect."

"What?" But Cook was already dragging him off to the concession counter.

Cook spent the entire time during the previews sneaking David's popcorn. Finally David started throwing pieces at him in self-defense. Cook grabbed at his hands, and by the time the first zombie showed up onscreen, the popcorn had fallen forgotten to the floor. They rescued the candy, though, and it was an hour and a half of chocolate-flavored kisses, with the armrest digging hard into David's side and Cook's hand sticky and warm on the back of his neck.

"I think I have butter in my ear," David said, dazed, as they stumbled out of the theater.

Cook nuzzled his nose into David's ear. "Yum." David giggled and shivered at the same time.

***

Jack was a guy about Cook's age who worked a couple of hallways down. He and Cook had a friendly sort of frat-boy relationship (at least the way frat boys acted on TV) and liked to insult each other a couple of times every day.

It was just complete coincidence that every time Jack came by to shoot the breeze or whatever, David found a question to ask Cook. He was an intern. It was important that he understand payroll accruals, and cash sweeps, and--

“Futures options?” Jack was giving Cook a _this-crazy-kid_ look, but Cook was fiddling with a pencil and looking pointedly at his keyboard. “That wasn’t even on the CPA exam.”

“Archie’s thorough,” Cook said with a completely straight face. “Let me walk him through this, and I’ll catch you later, okay?”

David beamed at Jack. “Later!”

***

"Question," Cook said.

David blinked up at him. They were under a blanket in the back seat of Cook's car, "napping" before Cook's rehearsal that night. (David was stupidly grateful Cook hadn't invited him or anything.) Cook's legs were wrapped around his, and his hand was--David blinked again. "What?"

"Stay with me, Archie." Cook smirked. "Aw, man, you make the funniest huffy sound when I piss you off. It's adorable."

David was not going to glare at him, because that was also apparently "adorable." "What was the question?" he asked, only a little sullenly.

"So, you're religious enough that you don't even drink coffee--" (David had refused some just that morning, despite yawning for five minutes straight) "but you're fine with having sex, _and_ having sex with a guy?"

"It's complicated--" David started, and then half his brain caught up with him and he said, "Sex?" and then he yelled "Ow!" because he'd banged his head on the hatchback sitting up too fast.

Cook was obviously trying not to laugh, although it wasn't working very well. He peered at the top of David's head. "Are you okay? I didn't mean to _actually_ hit you over the head with this conversation."

"I'm fine," David said, pouty on purpose this time.

Cook gave up and laughed, kissing the sore spot gently. "I'm sorry, man."

"Sex?" David asked.

"Well--I mean--right?" Cook started to sit up, but David yanked him back down before he hit his head too.

"Yeah. I just, um. Um." He was not going to say the word _virgin._ He wasn't. "I'm--new?"

Cook laughed so hard he almost hit his head anyway, and David just laid there and felt stupid for a while. Finally Cook stopped--he had to wipe his eyes with his sleeve, jerk. "I think I got that memo, Archie," he said, and David smacked him in the shoulder before he could go into another round of giggles. "It's cool."

"I'm thinking about changing my mind," David said, scowling, even though he probably wasn't, and then he let Cook kiss him anyway, so he probably really wasn't.

***

Okay, so if there was a good place to announce things like this, the _break room_ was totally not one of them, but there they were on Wednesday, waiting for someone's Hot Pocket to be done in the microwave, when Cook said, “Saturday.”

David waited, but Cook was just looking at him, half-smiling. “…Saturday?” he said finally.

“Yeah, Saturday.”

“Do you have a--a gig or something?”

Cook raised an eyebrow at him. “As a matter of fact, no, Archie,” he drawled. “I got somebody to sub for me Saturday, that’s what I’m trying to tell you. So I have all day Saturday, and for that matter all _night_ Saturday, to do whatever I want."

His eyes went sort of sleepy when he said "whatever I want," and his voice went all low and rough, like when he sang. David couldn't help it, he leaned in closer to Cook. He started to say something, he wasn't actually sure what--

\--and then the microwave beeped REALLY LOUDLY, and all of a sudden David was on the other side of the room.

"Sorry. I mean--oh my gosh, stop _laughing_ at me."

***

By Thursday afternoon, David was pretty sure he wasn't going to actually live until Saturday. Cook kept wandering over to smile at him, and ruffle his hair, and lean over his shoulder to point something out in Excel, and David was just--like, his heart was--and his skin felt all weird, and--

Cook walked behind him on his way back from Marsha's office and ran his fingernails over David's neck right above his shirt collar.

Okay, that was _enough._ David stood up, tugged his tie back into place, and turned around. "Hey, Cook, do you know where the window envelopes are in the file room?"

"Yeah, they're in the back--"

"Do you have a second? To show me?"

Cook looked up from his computer, confused, and David jerked his head towards the file room.

"Now, please," he said.

He didn't exactly push Cook in front of him into the file room, but he followed him superclose, and as soon as they were all the way in, he pulled the door shut behind them. Instant pitch blackness; David put his hand over the light switch so Cook couldn't get to it.

"Archie, what--ow!" There was a muffled thunk, and David smiled grimly. At least the computer cords were on his side. "Dammit!"

"Cook, you gotta knock it off," he whispered.

"What are you talking about? Where are you?" Cook flailed a hand into David's arm, then grabbed it and pulled him closer.

"You have to stop touching me!"

Cook's hands fell away.

"No, not--I mean, well--" David put his hands on Cook's shoulders (well, somewhere on his arms) and shook him a little. "Look, I don't really know a lot about this, but I don't think foreplay is supposed to last, like, the whole week!"

Cook stood absolutely still under his hands for a second, and then doubled over with silent laughter. David could feel him shaking, and he kept making these wheezy little noises when he tried to breathe.

 _"Now_ what?"

"I'm sorry, Archie. I'm sorry. I just--" Cook stood up and snuffled a couple of times. "I didn't really think of it that way."

"Well, how did you think of it? Because I've been--" David waved his hands around even though he knew nobody could see him. "Like, all day."

"Really?"

"Why do you sound _happy_ about it?"

Cook reached back out and grabbed him by an arm and an elbow and maneuvered him in so he could kiss him. First David was shocked, and then he was ready to be angry--talk about missing the point!--and then he realized that Cook was running his hands up and down David's back under his suit jacket, and it was kind of like being hugged while he was being kissed, and even though it was a really good kiss, all of a sudden he wasn't quite as itchy under his skin anymore.

Cook stopped kissing him but kept rubbing his hands up and down David's back. "I really am sorry. I didn't think about it, you know?"

David just shook his head and leaned up to find Cook's mouth again.

"You feeling better?" Cook asked a couple of kisses later. "Because we should probably not be in here all day. Someone will eventually want some window envelopes."

David made a disappointed noise and tucked his head under Cook's chin.

"For Pete's sake," Cook said, all disgusted even though he'd wrapped his arms around David's back and was leaning into him. "Archie, you gotta only use those powers for good."

"In a minute," David said vaguely. Cook laughed, and David smiled to himself and pressed his lips against Cook's shoulder.

***

David was stuffing yet more envelopes (three paper cuts and counting) when he heard Cook say, "Hey, Jack," behind him. He let out a muffled "Ow" and sucked on the outside of his thumb.

"Hey, loser. Doing anything interesting this weekend?" David always thought it was weird that Jack didn't know about Cook's music stuff.

"The usual." If Cook sounded more amused than usual, probably only David was listening hard enough to tell. "Just fuckin' around, you know."

"I hear you. Don't have too much fun."

David waited for Jack to get all the way to the other side of the office before he turned around and glared at Cook. Cook raised his eyebrows back, and they had a little silent _Cook!--What?--STOP IT_ exchange before David sighed in frustration and turned back around.

***

David didn't sleep at all Friday night.

***

Cook was coming at 2:00 again. About half an hour early, David finished making the bed. Um, again. He sat down on it, then popped back up and smoothed the comforter again.

He sat down on the couch instead, and picked up a library book.

About five and a half seconds later, he tossed that down and stared at the wall across from him.

He was pacing the three steps between the door and the couch, tapping his hands on his thighs in some disjointed rhythm, when the doorbell rang. It was ten minutes to two.

He walked over to the door. He tried to breathe deep, from the diaphragm, like he'd been taught, but he was still a little dizzy as he turned the knob.

Cook gave him a little half-wave. "I'm sorry I'm early."

"Oh, I don't care," David said, listening to his voice echo in his ears. "Come in."

The door fell shut behind Cook, and they stood there, staring at each other.

"Cook?"

"Yeah?"

"I just thought you should know, um...right now, I am the second-most scared I have ever been in my whole life."

Cook ran a hand over his face. "Archie. David." He put one hand ever-so-gently on David's shoulder. "You didn't sign anything in blood, man. We can just watch TV, or I can leave. Right now. No pressure."

"No. I mean, yes. I don't know what I mean." Cook started to step back, and David took two quick steps to close the space between them and pulled Cook's head down to his. "I mean stay," he breathed into Cook's mouth. "Please?"

He pressed their open mouths together, and felt Cook's hands grab the back of his shirt. It got a little fuzzy there for a minute--hands everywhere, and clothes being tugged at, and Cook saying his name in that rough singing voice. The next time he really knew what was happening, he was flat on the bed, no shirt, his jeans fly open, and Cook was leaning over him, also shirtless--David's hands were on his chest, just under his collarbones--and they were both breathing like they'd just sung a bunch of songs in a row.

Cook panted-laughed down at him. "Archie, I don't think this first round's going to be anything to write home about. I--you're just--God."

"Okay," David said agreeably. Cook had one hand still on his fly, and he kept trying to lean towards it with his whole lower body. "What?"

"Fuck, don't make me laugh," Cook said, which just confused David even more. "Just, just hang on," he said, and then all of a sudden David's jeans and boxers were at the foot of the bed, and he was naked, and the terror was back in full force.

He turned his face away while Cook jerked the rest of his clothes off; he didn't want Cook to notice, because the only thing he was more afraid of than the next thing that was going to happen was the possibility of it not happening, because he needed--

Cook slid onto the bed. His leg pressed up against David's, and he was leaning down to kiss him, and David took a quick deep breath before they kissed again. Cook was sitting on his legs, leaning over him. David's hands flailed a couple of times at his sides before he brought them up and put them on Cook's shoulders. They seemed reasonably safe.

Until Cook ducked down to start kissing his chest, and biting along the edge of his collarbone, and one hand slipped down to grab-- "Oh, God," David said. He was digging his fingers hard into Cook's shoulders, and rocking up into his hand, and his whole body was just--he was trying--he had to--

"Oh, _God,"_ David said again, shuddering hard, and his hands slid down Cook's arms and fell to the bed with twin thuds.

Cook kept touching him for another minute, and then he buried his head under David's chin and pushed against him. David was still trying to make his muscles work again, but he did manage to get one hand on Cook's head, and sort of petted him until he stopped shaking, too, and they were both lying there exhausted.

Cook pushed himself up on his elbows after a while, and grinned down at David while David stared up at him. "So, you okay?"

"Holy cow, it's nothing like that when _I_ do it," David said, and Cook collapsed in a panting, giggling pile on top of him.

"I tell you what," he said, leaning forward to kiss the line of red his beard had scratched along David's chest. "Give me a chance to catch my breath, and we'll try this again, with a little more...variety."

"What?" David blinked up at him.

"It doesn't have to be that, uh, down and dirty," Cook said, in that voice again, and David was pretty sure he was blushing. Cook just laughed, and David kissed him again in self-defense.

They made out until Cook said, "Oh, right," and dragged David off to the bathroom. He grabbed a hand towel from the shelf by the sink and started to, um, clean them up a little. David remembered that his mom had bought that towel and blushed furiously. Cook was rubbing the dampened towel in circles on his stomach and David realized with horror that he was starting to feel--oh. Oh, _man._

"Oh, really?" Cook said, all speculative. David covered his face with his hands.

"I'm sorry--"

Cook cut him off with a shriek of laughter. "My God, Archie," he said, and pulled him into a full-body hug. "You're kind of entirely awesome."

"You're more awesome," David said, wrapping his arms around Cook's back. "But--"

"Yeah, no, I know. Hang on." Cook let go of him abruptly. David watched, confused, as Cook started the shower--and then he got totally distracted by the way Cook leaned in to test the water temperature. He hadn't really gotten a chance to look at Cook all that much, and. Well.

Cook straightened back up and crooked a finger at David. "This way."

David's tub was pretty small, and he just had a liner instead of a real curtain. (His mom had bought him one, but it had some kind of weird leafy plants on it and it had creeped him out.) It blocked some of the light coming in, so everything was kind of, you know, soft, and not quite in focus.

Cook stood under the showerhead. David squinted up at him against the little bits of spray that were still getting through. Cook's hair went dark and smooth under the water. David took a deep breath and reached up to brush his fingers along the side of Cook's head, brushing back his waterlogged hair, and then along the edge of his beard. Cook just stood there and let himself be touched. When David lifted his face up closer, Cook bent down and kissed him, and the water ran down both their faces and into their mouths.

David let Cook push him back towards the wall. The spray bounced off his shins. He opened his eyes and saw Cook, his head half-haloed by the light through the curtain behind him. He smiled as he leaned down to kiss David again.

Then Cook's hands were between them, and David jumped a little as they slid up his chest. He broke the kiss and looked down to see streaks of lather following Cook's hands. He took a deep breath of hot, wet air.

Cook slid his hands up David's chest, rubbing his thumbs over David's--over his nipples. David blushed and hoped Cook couldn't see. Then his hands were lower, on the top of his stomach. Across his sides, to his back.

David looked away to the side of the tub. Tentatively, he let his hands fall from Cook's shoulders down his sides, until they rested at the very top of Cook's hips. Cook made an approving noise and kissed David again. He kept his hands moving on David's back, strong strokes from his shoulders to his hips and back again, like he had in the storage room, and David felt almost comforted again--

\--and then his hands dipped lower, and whatever the opposite of "comforted" was, David was feeling it. He kept breathing, though, around kisses, and leaning into Cook.

Finally, Cook stopped for a breath, and rubbed the side of his face against David's. The wet scrub of his beard made David gulp in a breath and clutch at Cook's hips harder.

"So," Cook asked, his voice rough and low again, "how do you feel about blowjobs, Archuleta?"

"Oh, God," David said. "I mean, sorry, I mean--I don't--"

"Right, okay." Cook laughed. He maneuvered David around until his back was to the corner of the shower. He reached around for one of David's hands and wrapped it around the other corner of the shower, by the curtain, where the curve of the wall provided a handhold. Then he took David's other hand and put it on the shelf where the soap was. "Hold on, okay?"

David nodded.

Cook's head disappeared from view.

"What--" David said. He looked down. "Do you--?" And then he said, "Oh, my _God,"_ and jerked his head up so fast he cracked it against the shower wall.

He barely noticed.

By the time Cook climbed back to his feet, not that much later, and pulled David under the shower spray to rinse him off again, David felt like a giant floppy puppet with loose strings. He followed Cook obediently out of the shower and into the towel, and out of the bathroom and into bed.

"I like blowjobs," he said as Cook crawled into bed next to him--almost on top of him, really.

"I thought you might," Cook said smugly. David started to smile, but yawned instead, and then just like that he was asleep.

***

David woke up an hour or so later. He blinked up at the light coming through the blinds; it wasn't even dark yet. It seemed like it should be days and days later.

Cook had managed to take over most of the bed by counting David as part of the mattress; David wiggled his left hand, which was about all he could safely move. Cook grumbled in his sleep, rolled a little, and somehow managed to get that one too.

David spent some time trying to find his other hand, which was pinned between his stomach and Cook's, and poked Cook. "Move over," he stage-whispered.

Cook muttered something into David's neck.

He poked harder.

Cook rolled over on his side and glared up at David through messy bangs. "What?"

"Did you sleep with a teddy bear when you were a kid?"

"Man, why does everyone ask me that?"

David giggled.

"'M going back to sleep," Cook said, still all growly and cranky. He rolled farther until he was on his back--which put a couple inches of him over the edge of the bed--and pulled a pillow over his face.

"Really?" David asked. He put a cautious hand on Cook's stomach.

"Well," the pillow said, "I can be persuaded."

David kissed the side of Cook's shoulder, then the top of it.

The pillow made a _thump_ as it landed on the floor.

***

David was trapped under a sleeping Cook--again, for like the third time--when his phone rang the next morning. He untangled himself from the sheets and the pillows and the seven or eight arms Cook had apparently sprouted and crawled off the bed. Cook snorted and rolled into the dent David had left in the pillow.

"Hello," David said blearily into the phone. Then his spine snapped straight. "Mom! Hi, Mom!"

He made a mad dash for his closet, and managed to pull on a pair of boxers without dropping the phone.

"Yeah, no, I had a good week," he said, turning his back to the bed and lowering his voice. "They gave me a bunch of new stuff to do at work, so I think I might be doing something right."

"Sounds like you're really enjoying yourself," his mom said.

David cleared his throat. "Yeah. Um...yeah. It's nice here? I miss everyone, though," he hurried to add.

"Everyone misses you too. Do you want to say hi?"

David snuck a look over his shoulder. Cook was propped up on his elbows on the bed, not even pretending not to listen. David's face heated as he turned back around. "That'd be great," he said.

Forever later, he'd told people he hadn't been to the beach yet, there weren't any movie stars near him, and no, he didn't have a cold, Dad, he was just still kind of asleep. He almost added, "not that it matters anymore," but he didn't.

His mom came back on the line. "Okay, honey, we have to finish getting ready for church now."

"Okay." His mom stayed quiet, like she was waiting for something else, so David added, "Talk to you guys next week."

He pretended she didn't sound sad when she said goodbye.

He hung up the phone and sat on the side of the bed. Cook stayed leaning on his elbows. "They always call me before church on Sunday," David said.

"Oh, yeah, it's Sunday," Cook said. "I'm usually still asleep right now. I just go to church with my family when I'm home."

David nodded and looked away. He caught sight of the refrigerator. "So, do you want breakfast?"

"What do you have?"

"Eggs. Lots and lots of eggs." David looked back to see Cook quirking an eyebrow at him. "Track," he said, shrugging.

 _"Na-_ turally," Cook said.

David leaned forward and kissed Cook. He wrinkled his nose as he pulled back. "Go brush your teeth first."

Cook rolled his eyes, but swung his legs over the side of the bed.

David watched him disappear into the bathroom. "And put some pants on!" he called after him. "There are no naked breakfasts in this house!"

Cook's hand came slowly back into view, middle finger extended.

***

“So,” Cook said.

David looked across the cubicle aisle at Cook. “So?” he asked, already blushing. The last two weeks had taught him that Cook usually followed that simple word up with something--David blushed harder.

In a smooth, well-practiced move, Cook pushed his chair away from his desk, across the aisle, and halfway into David’s cube, pinning him against the desk. “Hey, I’m getting good at that,” he said.

David poked Cook in the ribs. “So?”

Cook grinned at him. “ _So_ , I want you to skip your run tonight--“

“Yeah, okay,” David said, leaning towards Cook as far as the tangle of chairs would let him.

“--and come watch my gig.”

“I--oh.” David sat straight up. “You’re playing tonight? At the--“

“The Breakaway, yeah.” Cook was looking more closely at him. David looked away.

“I’m still gonna drink root beer,” he said. As protests went, it was pretty much the worst, but he couldn’t think of anything else. Under the desk, he dug his fingers into the palm of his right hand.

“Well, yeah. We’re not at that step of your debauchery yet. That’s next week at the earliest.”

“What?” David asked, and Cook rolled his eyes. He started to say something else, but Marsha’s office door opened, and Cook shoved his way back.

“Well?” he whispered across the aisle after she’d passed by.

“Of course,” David said, trying to rub away the fingernail marks on his hand. Because he couldn’t say no, he couldn’t explain, he couldn’t do anything but go and sit there and listen. He rubbed harder.

***

The Breakaway was a little more bearable the second time around. It helped that Cook found a moment in every song to look across the club. His expression was sometimes just a little vulnerable, as if David’s opinion of each song really mattered to him. David had to smile at him and loosen his hands from around the root beer bottle to applaud, and the effort behind that helped to keep his mind occupied. He even managed to have a conversation with Hank, or at least a decent imitation of one, and earned a grateful smile from one of the waiters, Jon, when he tipped him for the real beers Cook was downing between songs. He tried to focus on Hank, and Jon, and root beer, and the way Cook looked, and not listen too hard.

But the music crept in eventually, around all his defenses, and the thing was--Cook was actually really good. David would really like these songs if he could like music. And Cook’s voice was--David untucked the white undershirt and black button-down shirt he’d worn for courage and tried to bunch things up in front of his lap as much as possible.

By the time the last song ended, there was a line of sweat across the back of David’s neck, and his fingers hurt when he peeled them off the root beer bottle to drop it onto the bar. Hank gave him the same odd look he’d given him before, and David tried not to meet his eyes as he paid.

When he looked up, Cook was still on stage, winding up some cords. He saw David looking at him and jerked his head in the direction of the stage door. Half confused, half…something else, David made his way through the chattering crowd.

Backstage was almost, no, definitely worse. David had always thought of it as a secret world hidden behind a stage curtain or a studio door, but now it was a secret world he didn’t belong in.

At least this was a small backstage--just Cook’s band swapping out with Chris’s. It was still people talking about music, though. And packing and unpacking instruments, and being loud and sweaty. And _talking about music_.

Someone sang a few phrases of a song, low and mournful, and David stopped dead in his tracks.

“Archie!”

The guy singing broke off, and David stumbled forward in relief. He nearly ran into Cook, who took his arm and moved them out of the tangle of people and into a side hallway with at least an illusion of privacy.

“So?” Cook asked. He was sweaty and, well, satisfied. David grabbed for the bottom of his shirt again.

“You’re amazing,” he said, too worked up to do anything but tell the truth. “You should be famous, you should be playing stadiums or something.” He let go of his shirt to grab at Cook’s, dragging him closer and kissing him.

“Wow,” Cook said a minute later. He started to say something else and interrupted himself to kiss David again. “We. Um. Should go watch Chris’s set?”

David kissed Cook again. He hesitated, then brushed one hand up against the front of Cook’s pants.

Cook leaned into him. “Or we could go have sex in the bathroom, I guess.”

“Okay,” David said.

***

Someone banged on the bathroom door, jostling Cook where he was pressed up against it. David paused and looked up from where he was kneeling on the floor on top of his shirts and Cook’s.

“Jesus Christ,” Cook muttered. He rapped his head back hard against the door. “Go use the customer bathroom!” he yelled.

There was a pause. David eyed the door. “Dude, are you having sex in there?” someone said from outside.

“Obviously,” Cook called back.

“Oh. Okay.” And whoever it was walked away, whistling.

Cook rested his head back against the door. “I love my friends.”

David smiled a little and wrapped his hands around Cook’s belt again.

***

After that, Cook invited David to his gigs all the time. David tried to say no sometimes, but it got harder and harder. He spent a couple of nights a week at the Breakaway, or occasionally another club, leaning against the bar and listening to Cook take over the room with his voice.

“I think you’re getting even better,” he said one night, shifting a little on his bed to let Cook stretch out on top of him.

“Mm,” Cook said. He ran his hands down David’s sides.

“Why don’t you do it all the time? You could make it. I know you could.”

“I tried.”

David kind of wanted to stop asking. Why was he going out of his way to talk about music? But still, he asked, “What happened?”

Cook’s sigh shook both of them. He wriggled around until his arms were crossed on David’s chest and his chin rested on top of them. His gaze was focused on David’s chin.

“I did everything I was supposed to do, you know,” he said. “I was in a couple of different bands. We did a little bit of touring. It was almost a living.” He half-smiled. “I even recorded a solo album. It sold like a thousand copies.”

David sucked in a breath.

“I kept trying and trying. But I just couldn’t cross that line from playing music to having a music career, you know?”

David nodded. His throat hurt.

“I’d told everyone after college that if I didn’t make it by twenty-six, I’d chuck it all and get a real job. I thought--I thought I was padding it. Of course I would--“ Cook broke off and shrugged as much as he could in that position. “And then I turned around a couple of times and there I was, twenty-six, and I’d promised everyone, and someone knew about this job opening in Burbank, and. And and and.”

“But you’re still playing,” David said.

“I know. I’m not very good at giving things up.” Cook turned so his cheek was resting on his arms and he was facing away from David.

David put his arms around Cook. “I’m sorry.”

“I wouldn’t have met you, though,” Cook said to the apartment wall.

David snorted a little. “Yeah, who wouldn’t rather have sex with me than be a rock star?”

Cook made a muffled amused sound into David’s chest.

***

July wore on into August. David started getting up early to run, before the sun could bake the heat into the pavement. The fact that it left him his evenings free for Cook didn’t hurt.

They played tourist. They had takeout from a different restaurant every night for a week--burgers, pizza, pad Thai, chicken curry, hummus. They played video games, argued about college football, and, um, had a lot of sex.

But increasingly there was music. David and his root beer became a fixture at the Breakaway and wherever else Cook performed. Sometimes he went to other concerts with Cook--he found that if the crowd was packed tightly enough, he could concentrate on Cook’s body pressed up against his and barely hear the music, although the drive back to his apartment usually seemed much longer those nights.

Cook hadn’t gotten David to rehearsal yet; David was holding him off with arguments about distracting him. The thought of watching them all play around and improvise and create made him nauseated, but he didn’t think he’d be able to hold out forever.

Although…forever wasn’t much longer. His internship and lease were up at the end of the month. There was a job at his uncle’s waiting for him back in Utah, and his old room back if he wanted to save up some money, his parents reminded him every Sunday. It was the only logical thing to do, really.

One Thursday night, David was watching Cook fill in for Chris’s regular guitarist and trying so hard not to think about things that his head hurt. The crash of a glass hitting the floor nearby was a welcome distraction. He looked up to see a clearly drunk couple trying to sneak away from a table with a cracked Corona bottle leaking out underneath it.

David looked around; everyone seemed to have their hands full at the moment. He ducked around the corner of the bar, grabbed the broom and dustpan from where he’d seen Hank stash them a hundred times, and went to work on the mess.

“Thanks, hon.” He looked up to see Jon smiling down at him.

“No problem,” he said.

“’It’s not that busy on Thursdays,’” Jon sing-songed, obviously quoting someone. “’Busboys are for weekends.’ I haven’t been able to clean a table off all night. They all smell like beer.” He wrinkled his nose.

“Um, doesn’t everything here smell like beer?” David asked.

Jon laughed and patted him on the shoulder, and how it went from there to David scrubbing down tables and tossing empty beer bottles in the trash he wasn’t sure, but there he was, with Cook trying not to laugh at him from the stage.

“Are you looking to moonlight, Archie?” he asked as they walked to the car after closing time.

David was a little lightheaded, from being tired or from beer fumes he wasn’t sure. “Maybe I should,” he said. “They gave me some of their tip money, look at this.” He waved a fistful of ones and fives.

“Aw, you’ll never have to strip again.”

David surprised himself by bursting into laughter. He threw an arm around Cook’s neck. “Not unless someone asks me nicely,” he said.

At home he didn’t actually wait to be prompted, easing off each piece of clothing as slowly as possible. The bills spilled out of his jeans pocket and crinkled under his feet as he walked Cook backwards to the bed, pushed him down, and straddled him.

“I’m still dressed,” Cook said.

“Mm-hm.” David shifted his weight on his knees and leaned back until he was sitting solidly on top of Cook’s groin.

Cook’s eyes slid out of focus. “Um. We have to work tomorrow?”

“Mm-hm,” David said again. He slid one hand down his front, slowing down as his fingers traveled lower.

“Right, fuck it,” Cook said, and grabbed for him.

***

They raced each other up the office stairs the next morning, collapsing into their desk chairs at 7:59 on the dot. Cook was wearing yesterday’s suit and shirt, soggy around the edges from an attempt to steam the biggest wrinkles out of them in the shower, and one of David’s ties. David kept sneaking looks at him. It was all he could seem to do besides yawn.

“Davey,” Marsha said from behind him, and David jumped, snapping his eyes forward to his computer.

“Yes?” he asked, his voice only a little high.

“Can I see you in my office?”

“Oh--“ my gosh, David didn’t say. “Um, okay.”

Cook squeezed his arm as David went by him.

***

David shot out of the room a few minutes later, heading straight down the aisle past Cook. “Where did you say those window envelopes were?” he said as he hurried by.

Cook joined him in the supply closet, closing the door and leaning against it. “Did she notice?”

“No. I don’t think so. No.” David shook his head. “And it’s not like she’s going to say, Davey, you look tired, did you spend all last night--um. No, I don’t think she noticed.”

Cook spread his hands wide. “Then?”

“Sheofferedmea _job_.”

Cook’s mouth fell open. “You’re fucking with me.”

“Not at the moment,” David said, and fought a sudden case of the giggles.

“It’s kind of too bad,” Cook said.

David stared at him. “What?”

“I had the perfect road trip to Utah all planned out. I was going to stop in Vegas and everything. Now when am I ever going to get the chance to see the Blue Man Group?”

David punched Cook in the arm half-heartedly. “Jerk,” he said. Cook just grinned and kissed him.

***

David survived the day somehow. It involved a lot of splashing cold water on his face, pinching himself when necessary, and one accidental nap in the elevator that led to him riding up three extra floors and then down again.

After work, he and Cook barely managed to get out of their jackets and loosen their ties before crawling into the back of Cook’s car and falling asleep wrapped around each other. David woke fuzzily just before Cook’s cell phone alarm went off to find Cook’s hand wedged between them. He’d wrapped it up in David’s tie and was holding it like the corner of a favorite blanket. David was smiling even as his eyes drifted shut again.

That out-of-body frame of mind carried him along, right through Cook’s Friday night set. He bounced his fingers off his root beer in time to the beat, and stayed in his seat through all of Chris’s set for once. Cook was a little energized from being on stage and sat with his leg bouncing against David’s, humming along and nodding his head.

“They’re on fire tonight,” he shouted in David’s direction during a louder number.

“Okay,” David said cheerfully. He set his bottle on the bar so he could hold Cook’s free hand with his own. He was still holding it when the set ended and people started to wander towards the door.

David reluctantly let go of Cook’s hand when Chris gestured him over. He grabbed a towel from Hank at closing and wiped a few tables down just to stay on his feet. Jon gave him a kiss on the top of the head as a thank-you, and David blushed head to toe.

Cook was sitting on the edge of the stage, deep in an argument with Chris about the chorus of Cook’s latest song. David hitched himself up and stretched out with his head in Cook’s lap and one hand dangling lazily over the edge of the stage. Cook ran a hand through David’s hair, and David wondered if he could actually purr like a cat. He wasn’t quite tired enough to try it, though.

He drifted off for a minute and woke to singing above him. Cook was singing something with just nonsense syllables--after a second, David recognized it as the bridge to the song in question. Cook sang it again, this time with a slight variation towards the end. David winced.

“No, that’s even worse,” Chris said. He sang a different version of the phrase.

“I don’t--“ Cook started, but David patted his knee.

“You’re both wrong,” David said. He yawned and started to doze back off.

“We’ve been told, Dave,” Chris said, and David worked up the energy to make a face at him. “So how would you do it?”

“Shh, ‘m sleeping,” David grumbled.

Chris leaned over and poked him.

“Oh, fine.” David sat up, eyes still shut, and sang.

Chris’s hoot of laughter woke him up, and David’s eyes popped open. Oh, God.

“Dude can _sing_!” Chris was saying. “And he’s right. You should hire him, Dave.”

Cook was staring open-mouthed at David. “Holy shit. Why aren’t you singing all the time?”

“I can’t sing,” David said reflexively.

“No, seriously, you can.”

“Well, I don’t want to.” David’s heart was pounding against his breastbone, and he couldn’t take a full breath. “Not everybody cares about freaking _music_ , okay?”

The whole room froze silent, and David realized he had been yelling. He made himself look at Cook, whose shock and hurt was evident. He knew he should say something, apologize, explain, but the panic was totally in control now, and he headed for the door without really realizing it.

He stood in the parking lot, fighting the edge to just take off running.

“Hon.”

He jerked around. It was Jon, of course. He hadn’t really expected--well, maybe he had.

Jon looked at him for a long moment, then patted David’s shoulder. “Take you home?”

David looked towards the closed bar door. “Thank you,” he said quietly.

***

David went straight to bed and didn’t wake up until noon on Saturday. He got up, took a shower while not thinking, made himself eggs while not thinking, and put his running shoes on without thinking.

He was heading for the door--still not thinking--when his phone rang. He looked down and saw Cook’s name and number on the phone screen.

David stumbled to the bed and sat down, staring at the phone until it stopped ringing. He waited and waited, but his voicemail didn’t beep.

“Oh,” he said to the empty air. He crawled back into bed, shoes and all, and fell asleep again.

***

Cook called twice more on Saturday. No voice mail.

He didn’t call at all Sunday.

***

David struggled out of bed Monday morning and stood facing the bathroom door as if the hounds of hell were lurking behind it.

He could call in. He hadn’t taken a day off all summer. Or he could just quit. It wasn’t like--he wasn’t really going to stay there, if--

“Just go, David,” he said out loud, and stormed into the bathroom.

He was twenty minutes early to work, actually, and carefully parked on the lowest floor of the parking garage. He walked up the stairs and into the office.

Cook was already at his desk.

David had one foot planted to turn around when Cook looked up and saw him. Okay, right. David walked over to Cook’s cubicle--out of the corner of his eye he could see Marsha sorting through files at her desk--and shoved his hands in his pants pockets.

“My uncle said I could still have the job in Salt Lake,” he said.

Whatever Cook had been about to say vanished. He closed his mouth, swallowed, and opened it again. “Really? Did you tell Marsha?”

David shook his head. “I have a couple of days to make up my mind.”

Cook crossed his arms. “But you’re going to take it.”

“I--my family is close by. And it’s a good job, I’m sure.”

Cook just kept looking at him; David hunched his shoulders, noticed he was doing it, and stood up straighter.

“What’s the music scene like in Salt Lake?” Cook asked.

David blinked at him a couple of times. “I don’t, um, I’m not really sure.”

“Of course not,” Cook said. He turned back to his computer and opened up a spreadsheet. “Oh, I’ve got a duffle of yours in my car. I’ll bring it in after lunch.”

“Oh. Whenever,” David said.

“No problem.” Cook’s tone was polite and completely impersonal.

David groped for his desk chair blindly and sat down.

***

He lasted until Wednesday with Cook acting vaguely surprised every time they saw each other. He got in his car that night and headed for the Breakaway. He made it roughly a mile before he pulled over and leaned his head on the steering wheel. What was he going to say? How was he going to explain?

He drove home. Once there, a little digging in the back of his closet produced the laptop he hadn’t used since the last time his mom emailed him family pictures, as well as a battered shoebox held together with equally battered duct tape. He unsealed it with the help of a kitchen knife and sat on the bed, arranging the CDs into neat stacks.

There was one for every episode of Star Search, a group of four or five that was nothing but renditions of the National Anthem, recitals and school talent shows all mixed together, and at the very bottom, a handful all labeled _David--Church_ with a date.

He pulled out the last one and tossed it over to the couch, where it clunked on top of the laptop. The other ones he went through one by one, occasionally humming something under his breath, then abruptly selected one and dumped all the rest back into the box in no particular order.

The box went back in the closet; he piled a ripped pair of jeans and a pair of running shoes on top of it. He went to the couch, where he booted up the laptop and put the carefully-chosen CD in. There was only one file on the CD, and his video player automatically opened it.

David swallowed hard at the sight of his church. Before his dad focused in on the front of the room, David caught glimpses of his friends, his classmates, even a brief look at his brothers and sisters sitting patiently in the front.

Then he appeared on the screen, and David was shocked at how terribly young he’d been, and how oddly serene he looked. Maybe even a little smug, like someone who knew exactly what he was doing and would be doing it forever.

The song was straight out of the songbook they’d used all his life, something David knew note by note, but there was no humming along this time. There was an appreciative silence at the end, since clapping wouldn’t have been okay in church. David could remember people smiling at him from the congregation. And just before his dad shut the camera off, he heard someone in the back row whisper, “That boy has the voice of an angel.”

The file on the second CD opened just as easily, but the David on the screen looked as far from serene as possible. David took his hands away from the keyboard and tucked them under his knee.

It was the same song--how had he forgotten it was the same song? His younger version closed his eyes and sang.

It was terrible. Terrible. His voice sounded like--like he was singing with a throat full of sandpaper, or gravel. His younger self reached for a note that should have been effortless. His voice cracked and failed. The pianist hit a completely wrong chord out of surprise, and stopped with another jangle as David disappeared from the camera’s view.

The camera kept running--his dad must have forgotten it when he ran after David--and there was a lot of rustling (his family trying to politely get out of there to chase him down) and murmuring (people feeling sorry for him, he was pretty sure). David waited a long moment, letting it wash over him, then reached out and stopped the video.

He pulled the CD out and flipped it around a couple of times. The rest of them were labeled in his dad’s handwriting, but David had written this. His parents might not even know he had this.

He set the CDs on the kitchen counter next to his keys, even though there was no chance he’d forget to take them to work with him.

***

He worked on a little speech in his head all day, but in the end nothing would come out, so he just dropped the CDs on Cook’s desk and headed for the door, pretending he couldn’t hear Cook saying his name behind him.

Cook’s band had rehearsal that night, so who knew when he would watch the videos. If he would. Or if he would even understand, once--he was going to go for a run, David decided as he walked through his apartment door. He hadn’t done that in a while, and it would keep him busy.

When he walked back out the door twenty minutes later, Cook was walking up to it.

“That was fast,” David said stupidly.

Cook just looked at him. He was still in his suit, tie not even loosened, and of course the work computers could play video.

“Um,” David said, even more stupidly.

Cook sighed. He looked tired and more than a little angry. “Is this an apology for being an asshole to me and my friends?”

“I--no. I mean--maybe. Maybe the start of one.” David took a deep breath. “I really am sorry, though, even if that doesn’t matter.”

Cook didn’t change expression at first, and David tried to get his racing mind to just slow down. Finally, Cook sighed again. He looked more tired than angry now. “So you gonna tell me about it?”

***

“And they said it might clear up on its own, but that there was this surgery that might help.” David was sitting on the edge of his hastily-made bed, looking mostly at his knees.

Cook said nothing from the couch opposite him. He’d been saying a lot of nothing. He had asked, though, and David suddenly couldn’t stop telling the story.

“My parents weren’t sure because, you know, the risks, but I kind of talked them into it. I just wanted to sing again as fast as possible, and this was like the fast track.”

“So you had the surgery.”

“And it--it messed everything up.” David rubbed at the back of his neck. “I kept thinking, well, I’m just not recovered enough. I’ll wait a little longer, rest a little more. I spent the whole summer writing everything down instead of talking. I probably should have done that instead of having the surgery.”

“Hindsight is twenty-twenty,” Cook said.

David shrugged.

“So what did you do?”

“I ran.” David shrugged again. “My feet weren’t broken. I ran cross-country all through college. And I went on my mission, like you’re supposed to, and got a useful degree, like you’re supposed to. And I sat in church every week and listened to the--the choir, until--“

His stupid useless voice cracked and broke. David clamped his jaw down on the ugly sound. He barely noticed the mattress shifting under Cook’s additional weight. “And then I got the internship here, and for a while it wasn’t all--all around me anymore. Nobody knew they were supposed to feel sorry for me, or judge me, or anything. I even wanted--“ To go back to church. To take you home with me. To hear you sing, sometimes. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I may choose to be mad at you for different reasons now,” Cook said.

“Oh, okay,” David said numbly.

“Why did you come everywhere there was music with me? Why didn’t you tell me it would be more fun if I dropped a brick on your toe every night for three hours?”

David choked out a small laugh at the mental image.

“Archie.” Cook’s voice got softer. “Why did you keep doing something that hurt you?”

“I wanted to be where you were,” David said.

There was a long pause, and David worked up the nerve to look over at Cook. Cook, who was looking at David like--Cook reached out and took David’s hand in his without looking down. “You’re such an idiot, Archie,” he said, and leaned in to kiss him.

***

“What confuses me is,” Cook said, scooting over so David could have a sliver of mattress, “do you really not know what you sound like now?”

David tossed yet another pair of ruined boxers towards the garbage can. “Are we really going to talk about this right now?” He made the fatal mistake of looking down. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?” Cook asked. It was like he knew that tone of voice would make David do whatever he wanted. He probably did know. David wasn’t super subtle about these things.

He tried, though. “Come on,” he said, heroically attempting to ignore Cook’s wide eyes and wandering hands. “You heard what I used to sound like.”

“So? You sound different now.”

“I sound terrible, Co--oh!” David squeaked. “Cook, are you trying to use sex to, like, heal my trauma or something?”

Cook did that thing with his hand, and David let out a noise that sounded suspiciously like a note of music.

“I may be formulating a plan,” Cook said.

***

“You and your plans,” David said. His legs were kind of twitching--well, kind of jerking uncontrollably. Since he was sitting on the very edge of the stage at the Breakaway, the resultant thudding of his heels on the wood was starting to irritate even him.

“Just liked we practiced at home,” Cook said, his attention on tuning his guitar.

David started unbuttoning his shirt just to see if Cook would--

“Except not naked,” Cook said without looking up.

David surprised himself by almost smiling.

Hank and Jon finished handing out beers to the handful of people sitting and standing near the stage--the members of both bands, and some of Hank’s off-duty staff. Just a few people he knew. People he really wanted to like him, who he would have to look in the eye after this, oh man this was such a bad idea--

He almost took a water bottle to the face as Jon tossed it to him without warning. David smiled weakly and twisted the bottle around and around in his hands.

“Get on with it,” Chris said through a mouthful of beer. “I didn’t show up before the place even opened to stare at Dave’s poor excuse for a face.”

“You want me and you know it,” Cook said, and amid the laughter and cat-calling that followed, he looked over at David. “You ready, Archie?” he asked, his fingers on the opening chord.

David edged one foot over until it was touching Cook’s. He swallowed. “Yeah,” he said.

Cook kept his eyes on David as he played the intro, and David looked straight back at him and sang.


End file.
